


Show

by andsowefell



Series: Alternate Universes [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Rock Band, Band Fic, M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-05-16
Updated: 2015-05-16
Packaged: 2018-03-30 21:12:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,435
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3951937
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/andsowefell/pseuds/andsowefell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam Winchester is a young, newly employed roadie working for the current most successful band of its kind. After his first gig, he's disgusted by Lucifer, the front-man, but meets him again in a bar. <br/>Turns out, a select few people with ego have something behind it, and Lucifer goes to extremes trying to prove this to Sam.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [mind_and_malady](https://archiveofourown.org/users/mind_and_malady/gifts).



The concert hall reverberates with energy.  
Everywhere, people scream and roar, bellowing obscenities at the ceiling, chanting sporadically for the main act of the night to come and perform, to deliver themselves in the whirlwind of power and energy people have come to know and love.   
The crowd’s cries become deafening, vicious, like the hunting-calls of starved wolves. They are voracious. The band is legendary in its field of music, a welcome enigma. Fans do not understand it, nor do they feel they need to. The band’s name itself is mysterious and rings with power – Abaivonin Calz. No one knows what it means, but it sounds good. It sounds right, so they do not question it.  
A loud, guttural snarl answers the crowd’s demands and rises to a bellow, a leonine sound. The fans seem to go mad, and rightly so.  
Where there was once a dark, vacant stage, three men stand, tall and proud, the lights bathing them in radiance that melts beneath their skin and lends them the sheen of godlings. Effortless power glimmers in their eyes, in their gait, in their coiled musculature, in the high hold of their heads. They know the effect they have on their fans. They love it.  
Breathless anticipation fills the crowd below, the fans’ eyes wide and expectant. The drummer, a dark-haired man with piercing eyes the colour of dusky skies, flexes his muscles and taps his foot twice. On cue, the slender, roguishly handsome bassist picks several slow lines, fingers dancing over the thick strings with grace belying the song’s complication. Some measures in, the guitarist, smaller in stature and more beautiful than the other two, and fairer-haired and –eyed, takes incentive and strikes up a quick, powerful rhythm.   
Haphazard cries echo through the mass of people as he guides the song, building pillars of music with his fingers and weaving expert tales with effortless skill. The bassist has no trouble whatsoever keeping up, playing with equal skill, and the drummer’s speed and accuracy are nigh inhuman.  
This particular band is infamous among critics. Its members have chosen pretentious names for themselves, in particular the guitarist. The drummer calls himself Michael, and in this genre of music, Michael is not a welcome name. Nor is Gabriel, the bassist’s.   
The only accepted, and most pretentious, name is the guitarist’s: Lucifer. No one knows whether the name is merely the product of conceit, or whether his parents were rash enough to name him like this, but whatever the case, it certainly fits him. The music he plays seems out of this world, and he possesses a cold, undemanding beauty the likes of which one would expect to see on a magazine cover. The people love Lucifer and his music.  
Michael snarls as he goes into a faster measure, drumsticks pattering violently, his hands a blur, sweat already beginning to bead his forehead. He jabs his head quickly at Lucifer, and the blonde takes the nearby microphone into one hand, slams it down before him, and roars into it.  
And he never sings; his voice falls into a pitch so deep and guttural it sounds like the snarls and growls of dogs, punctuated by clenched teeth and throaty, hoarse roars and hisses, fitting seamlessly in with the rest of the song, a violent, vicious litany of pure energy and rage.  
The few strains of lyrics the fans are able to understand are blasphemous. They speak of burning churches, of crumbling nations and strange, elaborate rites and entities, of overthrowing God and bringing a new Dawn. The conviction, the dedication, with which Lucifer performs, suggests a personal disgust or dislike for God; these feelings are common in his field, but never so blatantly. The rest of the band seems indifferent, less hateful than Lucifer, but neither do they seem people who love God.   
The song picks up speed and pitch. Michael gives a small bark of exertion, hair falling into his face, head tossed back, his shirt drenched. Gabriel has to bite his lip to suppress a whimper as a string cuts the pad of his finger. Lucifer’s right hand is a bloody mess, his left a blur, and his vocals are interrupted by occasional small moans of pain as the strings rub into raw flesh. His voice cracks into a breathy whisper as he raises it, soft and forlorn, nothing like the earlier display of power and vitality with which he snarled and growled the long, unholy strings of words.  
Several fans tear their shirt to bits. Men fall to their knees, undo their belt buckles and pants, begin to prostrate themselves with bestial growls and hisses. Others drag their nails across their own bare skin, raising angry red welts, scratching bizarre symbols into their flesh and that of those beside them, ignoring the screams and howls around them.   
Onstage, the song begins to end, going into its final measures, a sense of finality hanging in the air, and when it finishes, Michael drops his drumsticks, breathing hard, heart galloping, and Gabriel drops his bass, massages his wrists, sucks the torn pad of his finger, and Lucifer’s knees buckle, his head tilted back, eyes closed, a thin trail of sweat running down his neck over his chest. For a few moments, silence fills the hall, Michael and Lucifer crumpled into heaps, hands on their chests, trying to regain their breath, and then applause erupts.

Backstage, a young man gathers the cables for the lights, rolling them onto cable reels neatly. He has the typical look of a roadie about him – tall, young, awkward, out of place. He hears the last notes of Lucifer’s guitar and voice humming softly, then nothing.  
Wiping his hand across his brow, he leans against the nearest wall and rests his eyes for a moment. Cleaning up after three world-class musicians is far from easy, and as much as he loves their music, they have the behavioural pattern of five-year-olds to them.  
The door to the backstage area creaks, a thunderous sound in the sudden silence, and the roadie turns, startled. All three musicians enter the room, exhausted and euphoric. Michael repeatedly brushes a strand of hair out of his face, and Lucifer has his right hand clenched around a portion of his shirt, which is stained red.  
Trying not to be overly noticed, the roadie dons his hoodie and sets the last cable reel down. One of the men clears his throat behind him. He turns.  
Michael and Gabriel have left the changing room, leaving the roadie alone with Lucifer. He’s even more intimidating at such personal range, despite how much shorter he is than the young man. The subtle scent of stage smoke, ozone and sweat lingers around him.   
After a minute of staring into piercing blue eyes, the roadie can stand no more and looks down. Lucifer chuckles softly, pads over to the bench, and sits down. The bench squeals beneath his slight weight, an indicator of what a piece of shit it is.   
“You did well,” Lucifer praises after a few moments. The roadie looks back at him, surprised.  
“Me, sir?” he asks rhetorically, earning himself a crooked grin and warmly affectionate eyes. He blushes. Lucifer gives a little snort.  
“You,” he affirms. The roadie smiles proudly and zips his jacket. His fingers fumble and catch several times. Lucifer rumbles in his chest; the sight seems to be amusing him, and the roadie turns redder and feels his zipper break. He groans angrily.  
“What’s your name?” Lucifer asks, struggling not to laugh.   
“Sam,” the roadie replies, chagrinned, and yanks the zipper down to unstick it from its position. “Sam Winchester, sir. Do you need anything else? ‘cause I was going to lock up, then.”  
“No, nothing. Thank you,” Lucifer says. He brushes his hand across his eye and unbuttons his shirt slightly, but Sam takes no notice of him. It’s hot in the room, and after hours of performing with reckless abandon, he has to be burning up.  
“We’ve never had as good a roadie as you. You did exceptionally well with the lights, Sam,” Lucifer praises warmly, lips turning up into another crooked smile. “The atmosphere was better than ever.”  
Sam nods. “It’s nothing. I help where I can.”  
“Touring with a Black Metal band must be daunting.” Lucifer raises an eyebrow and tilts his head. “We’re not exactly the most popular genre of music. Our fans can be rather violent at times. Theirs is not a kind to pick fights with.”  
Sam sighs softly and nods again. “I understand that. Are you trying to tell me something? Are you implying anything? I feel like you’re implying something.”  
Lucifer’s smile vanishes, replaced by a somber, serious expression. “All I want you to know is that not all is as it seems. I am a prime example.”  
“Why?” Sam asks, suspicion creeping into his voice.  
“It’s nothing. Forgive me,” Lucifer murmurs and shakes his head. He is acting oddly. Sam has half a mind to find out what this is about, but he also wants to sleep.   
“Uh, okay. ‘Bye. Good night,” he replies nervously. Lucifer raises his eyebrow again, brow furrowed, and exits the room.  
Sam decides it to be of no importance. After all, many musicians have sizable egos, and anyone who calls himself Lucifer must be such a person. A _prime example_  if ever there was one. If anything, the man seems like an asshole – beautiful and polite, but coldly so. He seems disgusted by the majority of people he speaks to directly.   
Angry, Sam leaves the changing room, slams the door shut, and locks it.

The scent of smoke and crudely burnt alcohol hangs in the air, mixing with incense and fried food, and the roar of human conversation fills the bar. From behind, a knife thuds into the wall before Lucifer. He turns angrily, fixing blue eyes on whoever threw the blade, and returns to nursing his drink.   
The dull throbbing in his head refuses to relinquish. His vision swims and blurs, and an acrid, metallic aroma fills his nostrils, so heavy he can taste it. The night was not easy for him; his fingers burn and ache, although Michael has bandaged and cleaned the cuts, he seems to have lost his voice, and he doubts he could so much as throw his glass against the wall in his current state. He feels weak. The sensation is not a welcome one.  
Someone slinks into the chair beside him. Weary, he glances over, eyes at half-mast, too exhausted to care about such trivial issues as politeness, and grunts what might have been a greeting.   
“I didn’t know you liked sleazy bars,” he hears a familiar voice. Sam. He shrugs and sets his glass down.  
“I don’t, typically. I needed a quick fix tonight.” Lucifer is disgusted by his own voice. He wishes he could remain silent.  
Sam nods sympathetically. “’s the concert hard on you?” he asks. Lucifer turns away and rolls his right shoulder tiredly.  
“It’s hard to satisfy a crowd. Everyone has different expectations,” he explains. “I suppose that’s what’s turned me into such a snob. I expect too much from myself.”  
Sam blinks. “You were pretty rude earlier,” he agrees. Lucifer sighs.  
“What’s your name?” Sam asks after a while of silence. A small, bitter laugh leaves Lucifer. He rests his forehead on his hand, eyes closed, and pulls his glass closer.  
“What makes you think you don’t know my name?” he asks.   
“Your name’s Lucifer?”  
“Unfortunately so,” Lucifer replies darkly and makes a small, amused noise in his throat. “I’ve always comforted myself with the knowledge that this was my parents trying to make me miserable; I waited until I was legally able to see my documents and what my name was. When I saw the document in question, I’m afraid I nearly gave the poor orderly a heart attack.”  
Sam laughs, despite himself. “You don’t  _seem_  like a Lucifer,” he says, because he does not know what else to say.  
It wipes the smile from Lucifer’s face. Warm, giddy blue eyes turn colder than frozen ponds, and the hard set of anger appears in his jaw.   
“I feel that Lucifer is a very admirable figure. He’s the reason we are able to hold this conversation, Sam,” he explains and folds his hands on the table.   
Sam raises an eyebrow. “Are you some kind of… Lucifer-worshipper?” he asks.   
“Not really, no,” Lucifer replies and shrugs. For a while, he simply sits, fingering the rim of his glass, finally licking the tip of his finger when he stops the motion. Sam looks away. As much as he wants to write Lucifer off and give him the cold shoulder and ostentatious treatment he rightfully deserves, the man’s every action, word and glance screams of wild, uninhibited energy and reckless attraction, and Sam wants rather to fuck him senseless than to ignore him.  
“I’m sorry for treating you the way I did,” Lucifer finally sighs. Sam’s focus slips and tumbles as Lucifer’s voice, hoarse and deep and cracked around the edges, meets his ears. He wants to hear much more of that voice, a great deal more. He wants to hear Lucifer cry out and growl and moan as he shoves him into the next-best surface.  
They spend the next half hour drinking, making small talk and, on Sam’s part, trying not to stare at Lucifer too obviously.  
Blaring music enters the mixture of sounds, painfully loud, and Lucifer makes a small, strangled groan, holding his head in his hands.   
“Let’s go somewhere quieter,” Sam suggests. The music does not bother him; he likes the song. Lucifer, however, appears to be in physical pain and repeatedly makes hurt noises.  
“Yes,” he agrees tiredly. “I can’t stand this noise.”  
Sam thinks that’s a bit austere, what with the music Lucifer plays himself, but he says nothing. Instead, he stands, gently pulls the blonde’s chair out, and waits for Lucifer to stand.  
It takes both of them a moment to realise just how drunk Lucifer is. He can barely stand without crumpling against the bar, his eyes are bloodshot and heavy-lidded, and his legs jerk and tremble like those of one electrocuted when he tries taking a step.  
Before he collapses, Sam slides an arm under his armpit, hand gripping into his ribs, and Lucifer’s shirt is drenched with sweat, damp against the slick skin of his chest and side. He’s a mess.  
“You’re light,” Sam mutters, letting Lucifer lean into him. The blonde blinks incomprehensively, hair mussed, and bursts out laughing. Baffled, Sam stares at him.  
“Literally,” Lucifer giggles and gazes at Sam hopefully, beatifically. “I’m  _light_ , Sam. Get it?”  
“Yeah,” Sam replies uncomfortably. He needs to get Lucifer away from this.   
They stumble through the mass of bodies. Sam drags Lucifer a good ways, because the blonde refuses to cooperate and keeps tripping, and eventually, Sam simply lifts him and slings him over his shoulders. As powerful as Lucifer appeared onstage yesterday, he’s the worse for wear now. Not only is he tiny compared to Sam, he is also worryingly light and slender. Sam wonders if he smokes meth or anything of the sort. He sincerely hopes not.  
Finally, they reach a secluded room, furnished with old, sizable leather sofas and chairs, a pale gold carpet, and white walls. Bland. Sam likes it; he hopes the decreased noise level and change in atmosphere will help Lucifer recover.   
“Sit down,” he orders and gently sets Lucifer onto one of the sofas. Lucifer curls into a ball, gazing at Sam, and burrows his face in the crook of his elbow.  
“’s quiet here,” he grumbles. “Than’s.”  
Sam smiles and shakes his head. “I’ll go get you water. Stay here.”  
Lucifer nods, head swimming, and closes his eyes.

 

Sam returns with two full, towering glasses of ice-cold water, garnished with ice cubes, and sets one down before Lucifer. He’s asleep, still curled up, breathing slowly.   
Sam reaches out and brushes a wayward strand of hair out of his forehead gently, amused. Blue eyes flutter open slowly.  
“’s wrong?” Lucifer slurs weakly. “’s a fire ‘n ‘ere?”  
“No, it’s just bright in here,” Sam grins. “Those are lights, Lucifer.”  
The blonde’s lips curve into a smile. “Lights,” he affirms drunkenly and lets his head fall back down. Sam has half a mind to kiss him.  
“Turn’a light off,” Lucifer finally grumbles. “My head hurts.”  
Sam follows orders and sits beside him, hooks an arm beneath the blonde’s shoulder blades and pulls him close, surprised at how cool Lucifer’s skin feels against his and how shallowly he’s breathing. With a contented  _murrp_ , Lucifer rests his head on Sam’s chest and resumes sleeping.  
“Comfy?” Sam sighs. No response.   
“’kay…” he finally mutters. “Sleep tight, angel. You don’t mind if I call you that, do you?”  
He laughs softly to himself and kisses the top of Lucifer’s head.  
“G’night, angel. Rest up for the next show. You’ll blow them away,” he whispers.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually formatted this.  
> And I'll probably get around to formatting the first chapter at some point.

Sam’s gotten himself top-notch seats.

From here, he can see every flick of Michael’s wrists, every slide of Lucifer’s fingers. The skill and expertise with which the band plays is still wondrous to him.

Tonight’s song is slower, more temperate , lacking the wild, vicious energy of yesterday’s. Sam finds it oddly beautiful. The melody is haunting; the lyrics are full of forlorn sorrow and hatred, and Lucifer’s low whisper makes it sound like a prayer rather than a song. 

The language sounds nothing like what Sam has ever heard. Its inflections flow, far more serpentine than English, Lucifer’s tongue caressing the words effortlessly, silkily. The guitar screams like a badly tuned violin or a more agreeable version of static, completely distant from every guitar Sam has ever experienced.

The longer he stares at the stage, the better he can see the band – Gabriel’s eyes closing in concentration, Michael leaning forward, his back arched, Lucifer’s head tilting back, mouth open in a long, drawn-out exhale. It takes Sam a moment to see the way his chest and torso are leaning back, the way his hips jut out, how his hair falls onto the nape of his neck, the thin lines of black streaking his skin.

He looks exhausted. He looks so small in his torn sleeveless shirt and leather pants. He looks unkempt and wild and disheveled. He looks _hot_.

Sam can’t help biting his lip and suppressing a little moan when Lucifer glances at him, fixes those blue, blue eyes on him and bows his head, gazing up through pale eyelashes, face cast into diabolical shadows and angles. Something black and white runs down his cheeks, accenting his cheekbones and mixing into his skin fluently. Paint.

Sam knows he will likely never see paint the same way ever again. Of course he won’t. Paint isn’t meant to be sexualised or objectified. Paint on Lucifer, however, looks like something he could get used to. Were it not for the fact that paint is poisonous, he would consider licking Lucifer.

As the song reaches its final lines, Sam hears something he thinks he understands: _Inni det... ta det tilbake..._.

Something about _inside_ and _take back_. He doesn’t know how he knows. Perhaps he has a friend who speaks this language and he subconsciously remembers vague bits and pieces. He resolves to ask Lucifer about it.

Lucifer. Lucifer is turning his guitar off and unplugging it, cord catching beneath his boot. He seems agitated, overly aggressive in disentangling it. His left hand, the one he isn’t using, is balled into a fist, knuckles straining white, the rest of his arm flexed and coiled tight as well.  
Michael yawns and stretches luxuriously, flexing his wrists in circles to relieve pressure, and Gabriel wipes his hands on his pants. They don’t seem half as tense or angry as Lucifer .

 

Someone hits Sam suddenly, a full-body blow, making Sam stumble and fall. He glares up angrily. Lucifer stands in front of him, pawing the ground with the tip of his left boot, arms crossed over his chest, and growls.

“Move. You’re in the way,” he spits and shoves Sam aggressively. Enraged, Sam shoves back. He knows he has no business pushing a world-famous man, but Lucifer’s attitude is greatly annoying. The blonde worms away, taking care to kick Sam in the side before he’s gone, leaving Sam on the floor, stunned.

When he’s recovered and calmed down, Sam stands on wobbly legs, pats himself down, removing every speck of dust he can find with meticulous care, and shuffles out of the room. His side hurts. He lifts his shirt, takes a tentative look at his ribs, and lets out a horrified squeak. Large purple blotches discolour his side, one the size of his fist, the other twice that. Lucifer’s foot must have connected much harder than he'd realized.

He gently prods the area with two fingers, giving a startled yell as pain shoots through his side. The skin is blotchy and wet , the bones feel broken. Slowly, painfully, he picks up his jacket from the floor, cursing Lucifer’s name as he does so. Every movement is agony. When he has to stand back up, he whimpers, teeth clenched, and cries a weak “Fuck!”.

Getting home takes a long time, and every second, he feels the debilitating need to wring Lucifer’s neck.

 

He sees him again in the line of a coffee shop. Lucifer looks nothing like his on-stage self. He’s clean-cut and unshaven, stubble dusting his cheeks and chin, and his clothes are stylish and nondescript: a pair of slim-fitting jeans, a white shirt and a leather jacket, complemented by light brown boots and what looks suspiciously like hipster glasses.

Despite the hipster glasses, he looks no less handsome than last night, and Sam can’t help but stare. When Lucifer turns, meeting his eyes, the blonde’s own narrow with concern and something like apology.

When he’s bought his coffee, Lucifer goes to a table. He meets Sam’s eyes again, and tilts his head invitingly, beckoning with two fingers. Sam can’t believe the audacity of him. After what happened last night, does the asshole seriously think he’ll just dance to his tune? 

“What do you want?” he snaps, eyes flying sparks. 

“To apologise,” Lucifer replies icily, cutting off Sam’s words and effectively derailing his train of thought. Too stunned to respond, Sam accepts the proffered seat and makes a point of not looking at Lucifer once.

They sit in silence, Lucifer sipping his coffee, fist fit into the dent of his cheek, and gazes at Sam curiously.

“I know that this is in no way an adequate apology, but I let my emotions get the best of me yesterday. You deserve far better than the way I treated you,” he apologises, voice oddly tender and full of regret. “I am truly sorry.”

Sam’s left speechless. He wants to tell Lucifer to go fuck himself, to stay away from him, but he’s mesmerised by striking blue eyes and the apologetic furrow of dark blonde brows. When Lucifer places his hands over Sam’s, Sam doesn’t move away. He lets the contact linger, hating himself for enjoying the feel of the older man’s skin on his.

“What do you want, Lucifer?” he asks, voice trembling, forcing himself to remain steady. Lucifer doesn’t answer, instead grasping Sam’s hands between his own. 

“Lucifer,” Sam repeats angrily and pulls his hands away. Hurt flickers over the blonde’s face for a split second before he recomposes himself and lets his own hands fall into his lap again, accepting the rebuttal. 

“Sam, how can I make it up to you? I don’t want to see you hurting any longer. I suppose it’s selfish of me, but I will not accept this any longer.”

Sam draws a shuddering breath and places his hands back on the table in an offering of surrender, waiting for Lucifer to hold them again.

Instead, the blonde cups his face in his palms and kisses him.

And it’s beautiful. Sam loves every second, every give and mould of Lucifer’s lips beneath his, his warm, ragged breath. He feels Lucifer’s hands slide to the nape of his neck, possessive and guarding, incredibly gentle. He leans into the touch eagerly.

When they break for air, a small crowd has gathered around them, grinning and clapping. Sam feels his face heat, but it’s not unpleasant. In fact, the only thing he truly cares about is Lucifer, who’s watching him with a bemused expression, eyes warm and slightly unfocused, those lips curved into a slight smile.

“And the award for best kiss goes to…” Sam hears a vaguely familiar voice from somewhere towards the back of the shop. He turns, expecting one of his coworkers, and instead sees Gabriel. The bassist looks highly amused, an obnoxious smirk drawn over his face, golden eyes full of malicious intent, and it’s then that Sam notices the mobile phone in his right hand.

“This is going _all_ over the Internet. You two are _adorable_ ,” Gabriel snickers. “Say cheese, Lulu.”

Lucifer ignores him and repositions himself to shield Sam from the camera, as well. Gabriel takes a photo nonetheless and begins typing at lightning speed, thumbs flying over the screen.

“New profile pic,” he declares, smirk wider than ever. Lucifer rolls his eyes and gazes at Sam questioningly.

“Let’s go,” he offers. Sam nods and stands, chair squealing against the ground, not bothering to shove it back under the table. They leave the shop together, not hand in hand, but nearly.

When they’ve walked a ways, Lucifer suddenly turns into a nearby parking lot and leads Sam to a beautiful car, a pristine white BMW with a sleek, athletic build and fat tires. It must have cost a great deal.

“You want me to ride in that?” Sam asks, stunned, unable to stop gawking at the gorgeous vehicle, eyes roaming over the powerful frame. Smiling, Lucifer walks to the side he’s on, opens the door for him, and holds it for Sam to enter. Still surprised that he’s supposed, much less _allowed_ , to ride in such a beautiful car, Sam climbs in to a spacious front and cool beige seats covered in buttery leather. He runs his hands over the dashboard experimentally. It’s smooth and cool, lacking the cheap profilation of worse dashboards. The design is stylish and elegant, seemingly made for Lucifer.

A sudden, thrumming purr interrupts his thoughts. Lucifer’s sitting beside him, hands on the wheel, foot on the gas pedal, and Sam can’t help imagining what those hands would feel like all over his body. The thought makes him flush, and when Lucifer places a possessive hand on his thigh, Sam feels himself go hard. 

“I can drive us somewhere farther away, if you like,” Lucifer offers with a sharklike grin. Sam bites his lip to keep from groaning out loud as the blonde leans in for a kiss, toying with his bottom lip before stepping on the gas and fluidly drifting out of the lot.

 

They stop close to a long field of grass. Sam nearly whimpers when Lucifer opens the door and pulls him close, palming his ass, and uses his leg to shut the door, breathing ragged.

“Hush,” he soothes gently, kisses Sam’s temple. Sam shoves him down into grass, and they roll over, collecting green stains on their clothes. Lucifer doesn’t appear to care one bit. He takes his glasses off, sets them aside, and gazes up at Sam.

Sam fists a hand into soft blond hair, pulls the guitarist in for another kiss. It’s rough and sloppy and heated, and even more perfect than their first. 

Lucifer tilts his head back. “I’m all yours,” he offers, sighing softly when Sam kisses his neck.

And Sam takes him up on the offer completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is the song I referenced. It doesn't belong to me. It belongs to Satyricon.   
> Satyricon are so great. And this entire fic is an excuse to bring Lucifer into a more understanding, more Lucifer-friendly environment, i.e., Black Metal.


	3. Chapter 3

Something hits the side of his face.

Sam turns, bewildered, and wipes a white glob away. It sticks to his skin, uncomfortably cold, almost like the feel of mud.

Gabriel stands there, laughing, and Michael’s trying not to laugh as he applies the sticky white substance to his own face, applying extra to his cheekbones and chin. Lucifer is the only one who remains serious, painting his own face with expert skill, hands steady and controlled. Sam likes the way it makes his cheekbones look, and he likes the entire idea, until Lucifer reaches for a pot of dark grey paint and starts rubbing that over his eyelids and his temples.

He gives up trying to understand when Lucifer quickly swipes a hand over his forehead, blending the grey and white paint, and begins rimming his eyes in black kohl.

“Lulu, you’re supposed to look dead, not like a clown,” Michael sighs. “I’ll help you.”

Lucifer rolls his eyes, but he gives in and lets Michael have his way. The brunette makes a point of applying copious amounts of grey and black paint to his cheeks and forehead, making him look like something that crawled out of a grave.

Gabriel stands beside Sam, sneering.

“Oh, Lucifer, you look so _sexy_. You’re my hero. Lucifer, _marry me_!” he drawls theatrically until Lucifer shoves him back into his chair and threateningly holds up the paint.

Michael grins, amused.

“Stop making Sam uncomfortable,” he smiles, giving Sam a steadying glance. Sam coughs nervously and shoves his chair out. 

“I think we should go,” he suggests with a suggestive glare at Lucifer, who’s making faces in an attempt to let Michael reach every angle of his face. 

“Lucifer,” Sam bites out and grabs the blonde's shoulder. “Let’s _go_.”

Lucifer hums and rumbles, cracks one eye open and immediately squeezes it shut again as Michael dabs more grey paint on his lash line. 

“Nearly done, Lulu,” Michael soothes and smudges the paint. Lucifer mewls and squirms, trembling, and when Michael removes his hands, he blinks rapidly in an effort to get something out of his eye. Sam meets his gaze, and the blonde raises an inquisitive eyebrow.

“How do I look?”

“Good,” Sam offers earnestly, and leans in to kiss his boyfriend. Paint smears onto his lips, tasting of iron and chalk, and something greasy, like overcooked french fries. Lucifer breaks the kiss first, but he grins up at Sam with childlike joy.

“I’ll see you in two hours, then,” he sighs as Sam tousles a hand through his hair, pulls him close, and playfully shoves him away again.

Gabriel makes rude hand gestures to the two of them the entirety of Lucifer’s packing and preparing. 

 

The songs tonight are powerful and rolling, but less energetic than the ones before. Michael isn’t exerting himself nearly as much as the nights before, his part so much slower that Sam can see every flick of his wrists, every shift of his shoulders.

Lucifer seems relaxed, calm, and toward the end, he falls silent for a bit before beginning what sounds like a prayer, voice deep and forlorn and pleading.

It’s the last song of the evening, and after the show ends, he all but jumps off the stage to find Sam, who’s in the front, close to the moshpit, taking care to stay out of reach of the rabid fans. Unable to keep the laughter out of his voice, Sam pulls him close again and kisses the top of his head. 

“You were amazing,” he praises. Lucifer grins and worms out of his arms to give the reporters the interviews (and now, acquiesces to his “apparent” homosexuality) they want.

Sam watches him pounce into a seat theatrically, earning laughs from the reporters and the fans close enough to watch, and when the reporter asks him a question Sam can’t hear, Lucifer gazes over at Sam and launches into a passionate tirade. 

For ten minutes, Lucifer waxes poetic about Sam’s attributes to the reporter, until she silences him with an upraised hand, seemingly thanks him for his time, and clicks her microphone off. Lucifer patiently sits through all the interviews, but toward the end, his answers become increasingly short and cold, until he snaps at the last reporter that he has to leave.

He returns to Sam seething. 

“I’m sorry I took so long. The reporters were asking me the _stupidest_ questions.”

“Such as?” Sam asks, unable to keep a smirk off of his face.

Lucifer rolls his eyes. “The size of my dick, for one, and how often a week I shower with AXE.”

Sam bursts out in startled laughter. “So, how often a week _do_ you shower with AXE?”

“Never. I don’t use AXE,” Lucifer sighs and places his hand in Sam’s, clasping his fingers around the brunette’s. Sam squeezes his hand gently. 

“Luce?” Sam mutters when they’ve melted into the crowd. Lucifer hums, inviting the question.

Sam clears his throat. “This is probably a stupid question, but… do you enjoy doing what you do? I mean, do you make music because you feel you have to or because you like doing it? And if I asked you to sing to me, would you?”

“Of course,” Lucifer replies, astonished, and tilts his head. “But you’ve never heard me _sing_ What I do onstage can hardly be counted as singing, can it?”

“Not really. To be honest, it sounds like you’re trying to bark and clear your throat at the same time.”

Now it’s Lucifer’s turn to laugh. He looks lovely like this, head tossed back, hair falling into the nape of his neck, features illuminated. The stage light does wonders for his complexion, giving him an ethereal glow that radiates from every angle and bone of his face.

“It’s still early,” Lucifer offers suggestively and raises an eyebrow at Sam. “I know a way to kill time.”

“You’re incredible,” Sam sighs, rolling his eyes, but he lets Lucifer slip his hand into his and pull him out of this room into one that’s tiny, but well-furnished, with a sturdy, solid ash little bed he doubts they’ll fit on, and walls so white they must be freshly painted.

Lucifer sits on the bed, legs crossed, and tilts his head back, squinting, to gaze at Sam. He’s a mess, limbs pooling in black fabric and leather, paint running down the edge of his cheeks and chin, hair wild and matted with sweat and grime, and Sam suddenly finds himself wanting to clean the blonde up. 

There’s no shower here. 

“You’re a mess,” Sam mutters and thumbs away a streak of black on Lucifer’s collarbone, surprised at how prominent the arch is against his thumb, and watches as the guitarist’s brows knit together in confusion. Then, understanding dawns on Lucifer, and he grins.

“Fifteen minutes,” he sighs and runs a hand through his hair.

“Huh?” Sam asks and tilts his head, unintentionally mimicking the blonde, and Lucifer grins wider and points to his watch.

“Fifteen minutes to the nearest hotel. Think you can wait that long?”

Sam snorts. “I’m not fourteen, Lucifer. Let’s go. I’m driving.”

“We’re taking my car,” Lucifer butts in, amused, and fails horrendously at hiding his laughter at Sam’s expression. “And you’re driving. You said you wanted to.”

 

The hotel room is nothing special, large but relatively empty, with garish walls in fleur-de-lis patterns and zebra rugs. Sam coughs weakly in an attempt to hide his amusement, and Lucifer joins him, and they collapse onto the bed together (more fleur-de-lis), close to tears and shaking with mirth.

“This looks like a room a pimp would rent,” Sam groans once he’s acceptably recovered. Lucifer looks up, startled, and bursts out in a fresh wave of laughter.

“That is does,” he acknowledges, wiping a mixture of tears, sweat and now-brown and grey paint out of his eye. “There’s a shower here. I really need it, I think. I look like a pig.”

Sam snorts. “Pigs don’t look sexy covered in white.”

“Shut up,” Lucifer mutters and playfully pushes him back. Sam catches his hand, then lets it drop and leans in to press a kiss to the blonde’s cheek. Lucifer shoves him away, stands, and makes his way to the shower. 

“Wait for me,” Sam orders and grabs hold of Lucifer’s wrist. The blonde stops short, startled, and turns.

“What?”

“There’s no way you're going in there, looking like that, on your own,” Sam growls and lets Lucifer’s hand drop, replacing his own in the blonde’s hair. Lucifer cuts back his moan, following Sam into the bathroom. 

And this is better, more spacious, with an accommodating bathtub and two sinks and an elegant, if simple, array of shower gel, shampoo and conditioner, and disposable razors. Other oddities litter the edge of the tub, bars of soap and shaving cream and those floofy little back-washing-things that Sam can’t identify. They look like something girls use.

Lucifer, meanwhile, has stripped out of his shirt and begun scratching away layers of paint from his neck and chest, nails literally digging into white. Beneath the paint, his skin is still pale, snowy and almost glowing. 

“I should probably try to get a tan,” he sighs and begins rubbing the heel of his hand into the dip in his chest. “I look like a snowman.”

Sam grins. “A snowman? That’s the dumbest comparison I’ve ever heard, Luce.”

“I needed something,” Lucifer retorts and shrugs. “A snowman was the first thing that came to mind.”

“Well, you’re a cute snowman, in any case,” Sam offers and cranes his neck to kiss the blonde’s cheek. “I think you should actually take a shower. You’re not getting much done like this.”

“You just want to see me naked,” Lucifer snorts, but he acquiesces to Sam’s demands and unbuttons his jeans, effortlessly sliding them down narrow hips and too-thin thighs, his pelvis and hipbones painfully prominent. Sam runs a finger along his left hipbone sadly, places his other hand over Lucifer’s shoulder blade. It jabs into his palm.

Lucifer steps out of his jeans, all long legs and gangly arms, and it’s then that Sam notices how hard he’s shaking, and that he’s shaking, in any case. 

When the blonde has stripped completely and stands naked in front of him, Sam can’t help gathering him into his arms, one wrapped around Lucifer’s shoulders, the other around the small of his back, and running his upper hand through long, pale golden hair, and pulling Lucifer as close as he possibly can, steadying him. 

“You’re cold,” Sam observes. “Go and wash up. I’ll wait outside, alright?”

Lucifer nods silently and lets his arms drop from around Sam, but he doesn’t move until Sam gently pries him away, kisses the top of his head, and turns to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LULU'S A SNOWMAN AND I AM NOT SORRY.
> 
> Also, if you must know what size his dick is, ask Mark Pellegrino yourself.  
> You pervert. Jesus.


End file.
